


Deal with the Devil

by ecrichard



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-08-13
Updated: 2013-08-12
Packaged: 2017-12-23 07:46:50
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 17
Words: 17,128
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/923742
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ecrichard/pseuds/ecrichard
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>What if John had met Moriarty before he met Sherlock.</p>
<p>"You're not haunted by the war, Dr Watson. You miss it."</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

He put the pistol away in the drawer for the fifth time that night. His fingers itched against his thighs as he forced his mind to distraction. The dark room he rented grew dim in the fading afternoon light as the sun dipped behind the overgrown trees in the parking lot.

Three months. He'd been back for three months and Harry had only called him twice. One of those times was to return the boxes he had stored in her basement and the other was to invite him to a Christmas party. He only stayed for twenty minutes and he was sure no one noticed that he'd left.

There was no one left in London who cared that he'd returned. As he sat on the edge of the bed he attempted to imagine this next phase. His shoulder still ached and the painkillers did little to alleviate the constant pain. It was easier to use the cane than to everyone why he was always in agony. A man with a cane needed to explain very little.

His future seemed dull and dismal. There were job prospects out there but none that appealed to him. They were in clinics and offices treating middle-class housewives and their sniffling children. With his shoulder, being able to do surgeries would be a ways away since the mobility in his left arm. Now he was restricted to check-ups and prescription pads.

There was no more army, no more adventure. His life was relegated to the concrete streets and day-to-day errands with no hope of being needed or wanted by anyone the same way he was in Afghanistan.

He looked back at the drawer where he'd placed the pistol. It sat there taunting him day after day. John was aware that there was no one that would be upset if he were to die. Even after he was shot and in hospital for over two weeks there wasn't so much as a concerned email or phone call from his family even after they heard the news of his injuries. No, he was alone. There was no hope here in London.

All he wanted to do was sleep. He didn't even have the energy to walk back to the drawer and take out the weapon. It all seemed so fruitless.

Just as his head hit the pillow he heard a shot from outside his window. It was a shrill terrified scream. He immediately sat up and looked down to figure out what had happened. From his second floor vantage point he saw a young woman in her twenties struggling with a man in a trench coat. He pulled at her arm and attempted to force her into the alley between the hotel and the bank next door. There was no one on the street to help her. She was much smaller than the attacker and all her attempts at escaping just met with more aggressive moves by the man.

For a moment, a long moment, he didn't move. He stepped away from the window and sat back on his bed. This wasn't his fight. There was no reason to risk further injury to help a complete stranger.

As he sat, the adrenaline built up in his body. His heart beat hard against his chest and he felt his cheeks grow flush. There was no one out there to help. This may not be his battle but he was trained to fight in wars that were not his for years. He grabbed his cane and jumped to his feet.

* * *

At first he did not see the woman. She was no longer where he last witnessed her and there was no sign that she had ever been there in the first place. John walked closer to the alleyway that he'd guessed was their destination and then he heard the muffled sound of her shouting yet again.

He strode in long steps towards the alley and stood at its entrance. The woman was pinned against the wall and the man had her arms pressed tight against it. He'd already hit her in the face and she was barely conscious.

"Hey!" John shouted.

The man didn't appear to hear and continued with his attack. John stepped forward until he was inside the alley.

"Hey!" he shouted again.

This time the man stopped abruptly and stood frozen.

"What're you doing?"

His head slowly rotated until they faced eye to eye. The man had a reptilian smirk with bared teeth and a squinted glaring stare. For a moment they looked at each other but the man didn't say a word. He went back to his victim.

John moved forward with his cane smacking against the cement with each step. "Leave her alone," he said.

The man pulled at her blouse.

"You hear me?" John said.

The man abruptly let the woman go and she fell a foot down to the ground. She lay, slumped against the wall, as a bruise formed on her cheek. John didn't miss a beat.

"Get out," he said as he pointed to the street.

"Sod off," the man said. He was much taller than John and more muscular than he appeared.

"I will call the police. I'm giving you one chance, understand?"

He wasn't afraid, not in the least. He was aroused by the moment, the unpredictable danger of standing face-to-face with death and not knowing the outcome. John had come weaponless and injured and yet he stood.

The man lurched forward with his fist held out.

John took a step back to avoid the anticipated swipe. He moved a moment too slow as the first punch made direct impact with the side of his head. He felt the hard bones of the man's fingers dig into the muscles of his jaw. His ear throbbed as he shook off the shock of the pain. But he'd felt worse and fought harder. He stood back up and swung at the man.

He made direct impact with the underside of his chin and the man howled in pain as he cradled his jaw. "Shit," the man muttered.

John knew he had to act quickly. He grabbed his cane and swung it at the man's knees. The cane impacted with snap and a crack as the man fell to the ground. Another blow to the abdomen and the man groaned, as he lay incapacitated.

He held the cane up again and badly wanted to hit him again. The impact of a well-timed hit sent waves of pleasure through his body. But the woman moaned and looked up, dazed.

"You all right?" he asked as he brought the cane back down to the ground.

She was bruised and rattled but unharmed. "I think so," she said as she rubbed the side of her face.

"I'll call for an ambulance," he said.

John began to walk towards the street. His medical training commanded that he stay with her and maintain her well being but those wide-eyes of terror and confusion were too much. He couldn't see another innocent soul so afraid. He turned away and walked back towards the hotel as he spoke to the operator.

"…attacked, yes. I just walked by. Jameston and 4th."

As he got back up to his room he opened the door with a curious sense of energy that he hadn't had since Afghanistan. It ignited an odd sense of purpose in him that he couldn't articulate. In the moments with that man he wasn't thinking of the future and the hopeless treadmill of the rest of his life. He wanted more.

On the floor of his room there was a small white envelope that had been shoved under the door. He figured it was the bill or an eviction notice. All that was inside was a small piece of cardstock. It was simply 6 words written in non-descript handwriting:

_8 Franklin St. Tomorrow. 5 pm._


	2. Chapter 2

There was never a moment he didn't know that he'd walk to Franklin Street the next night.

No doubts.

The knuckles of his fingers still ached as he manipulated and bent them to feel the burn of pain that made his body restart and ignite. It was the only time that he felt anything but apathy.

All day he paced around his room and up and down the street with giddy excitement at what the night would entail. He'd blown off an interview at the clinic across town and hadn't taken any of the pain medication. John felt an invigorating surge of energy that he hadn't felt since combat.

He was dressed a jacket that his sister had bought him for his birthday before he went to Afghanistan. It was her attempt to keep him from leaving by getting him an overpriced leather jacket and promised free rent until he found his own place. But nothing could stop him from enlisting and deploying. There was a part of him that needed to serve and help those that needed him the most. All that he had left of his sister now was the jacket that had acquired a layer of dust at the bottom of the storage box.

It made him feel interesting and vibrant as he walked the ten blocks to Franklin Street. He fiddled with the envelope that rattled in his pocket to alleviate the feeling of anxiety that wanted to keep him from moving forward another step.

The building at Franklin Street was unspectacular. It was nothing more than a walkup with cheerful blue shutters and a trim of blooming daisies. He gazed back at the sheet to make sure he hadn't walked to the wrong address but he knew that this was where he was supposed to be. The feeling of embarrassment and humiliation washed over him as he debated whether to continue to the front door. There was probably some teenager in the bushes laughing hysterically that he had tricked a soldier into wasting a day walking to a stranger's home. The anger of being duped still did not trump his curiosity. John decided to walk towards the door.

Just as he picked up his cane to make the journey he heard footsteps behind him. They were nearly silent, but he'd been trained over months of combat to hear even the quietest noise. He froze and waited for the next sound. He readied his cane to attack whomever was behind him.

John spun around and was treated to a kind looking middle-aged man in a suit and glasses standing ten feet behind him. He relaxed his hands and smiled politely at the passing stranger.

"Evening," he said.

The man nodded back. As the man passed him, John felt something grab his arm. He looked up and the man had his fingers wrapped around John's forearm. In one fluid motion, the man grabbed a needle from his pocket and stuck it in John's arms and released a sedative in his blood system.

"What…was that?" he said as he tried to get the words out. John felt his heartbeat slow and his muscles grow lax and lazy as he struggled to stay on his feet. His ankles began to roll and standing upright quickly became impossible. His knees buckled and the man was there to grab him before he fell. The last thing he remembered before blacking out was the man speaking into his phone.

_We've got him_.

* * *

He awoke inside a dark room. John tried to rub his eyes but his hands were bound behind his back. His head pounded and ached and his stomach lurched with discomfort.

He groaned and attempted to speak but the words were still raw and uncooked in his throat.

"No need to speak, Dr. Watson."

John looked around for the source of the voice but he couldn't see anyone. He wriggled his wrists in an attempt to escape the restraints but they were too tight. There was no leaving.

"We've been watching you."

Again he looked around as he could tell the voice came from the corner of the room but it was too dark to make out anyone.

"You have talents. We know about your work in Afghanistan. Very impressive."

The voice had a softness to it as it lilted and lulled across the room. It wasn't English. Irish. It sounded Irish.

"We could use someone like you. We need someone who has no fear and nothing left to lose. We need your marksmanship. Dr. Watson, we could put you to good use."

"Who are you?" he asked.

The figure in the corner took a step forward. "We're working to set things right. You will make good money and your skills will go to good use. You don't want to waste your life working at hospital now do you?"

He didn't. Nothing sounded worse but he didn't know who this man was and what he intended to use him for.

"What do you want from me?"

The man moved even closer. All John could make out was the outline of his body. He wasn't a tall man and had a slight build. He moved forward with his hands in his suit pant pockets with his head bowed.

"We want you to be part of our team. You've been recruited, John."

As the man moved into the light, John could make out a few of his features. He had kind brown eyes and a gentle smile. His suit was tailored tight across his body and he was impeccably groomed.

"Why did you tie me up?" he asked.

The man gestured in front of him and John immediately felt the restraints around his hands and feet loosen and fall to the ground. "We wanted to make sure you listened. Not everyone can handle the stress of being captured. Think of it as a hazing of sorts. And you passed."

The man smiled with his lips but his eyes maintained a soulless quality. Still, John felt oddly attracted to him. There was something about the air of mystery and adventure that he projected with each word that kept him seated.

"Who are  _you_?" he asked.

The man stepped closer and patted John on the shoulder. He then stuck out his hand for a shake.

"James Moriarty," he said.

John shook back.

"Welcome aboard."

 


	3. Chapter 3

A new flat.

A new car.

A wallet filled cash so he couldn't be tracked.

A bank account that filled sporadically with more money than he'd ever had in his lifetime.

Three weeks into his agreement with James and he was already felt cured. The itchy finger for the gun was gone and he had gone out and socialized for the first time in months. He'd even ringed Harry to have dinner and it had been pleasant.

It all seemed too easy. James would send a text or an email with details—encoded and cryptic to the layperson. John would deliver the package or take the photograph and send it back to James by the end of the day. It was all simple errands, nothing a trained private investigator couldn't do.

As he came in from his first date in years, John felt his phone vibrate. He half expected it to be Melinda, the nurse that he'd just gone out with, on the phone so he picked it up with a smile.

It was James.

He was afraid to answer. He was told explicitly that his instructions were not to be given over the phone but it was the boss. Perhaps this was something more complex than a package.

John let the phone rattle in his hand for a moment before picking it up.

"Hello?"

There was a click and a moment of silence on the other side.

"Hello?"

A crackle of static followed. The volume intensified to the point that he had to pull the phone away from his ear. Then, as suddenly as it started, it stopped.

"Mom needs milk. Come home," the voice said. It wasn't James. It was English.

Back to Franklin Street. Mom needs milk meant that James had a job for him to do. He found comfort on the code words and secret language of his new workplace. It was like being on battlefield again.

He pulled of his suit jacket and slipped on a pair of jeans. The newfound wealth had allowed him to update his dated wardrobe but it was still foreign to him to wear a suit. It felt tight and restrictive on every inch of his body.

John walked out of the room with a spring in his step, the cane long buried in the back of his closet. As he bounded down the steps he felt his phone buzz again.

_Had a great time_.  _Want to come to do a movie tmrw?_

He felt his chest expand with pride. John still had game.  _Absolutely. Pick u up at 7._

* * *

John walked into an empty house and waited in the foyer. While he was on the payroll, he knew very little about how the hierarchy of James' group worked. He had spoken to a few others that appeared to know what was going on but it was clear who was his "boss" or if anyone, besides James, was in charge.

He rocked back and forth on his feet and looked around at the oddly suburban layout of the foyer. There was a large table in the middle that had framed photographs of a sandy beach and a beautiful forest on either side. There was a large potted plant by the stairwell and a full-length mirror along the wall. The wallpaper was clearly chosen in the 1960's and never touched since. It was the kind of home his own mother would have felt very comfortable living.

"Watson. Come back here."

It was the same English voice from the phone. He was at the base of the stairwell and gestured back towards the kitchen. John didn't recognize him as one of the previous handlers. He had a formal countenance and a posture that had been well-trained through years of expensive and strict schooling. He stood, shoulders back, with his hands in his pocket.

John walked past him and into the kitchen, trying to not be intimidated by the large height difference. The man followed behind and pulled out a chair for himself at the counter. In front of him was a manila folder that was filled with a small stack of papers.

"We have another job for you," the man said.

John gestured towards his phone. "I was told that it would all be done over text and email."

The man nodded. "Normally, yes. This one in particular needs a bit more background."

John felt his heart rate begin to rise as the man opened the folder. On the first page was a large black and white photo of an older Chinese woman as caught by a security camera.

"This is Li Na Shang, general of the Black Lotus Tong. We've been in contact with her regarding a shipment of a very valuable artifact. She has failed in her mission and she will need to be eliminated."

The man closed to the folder and slid it towards John.

The word  _eliminated_  rattled in his brain. It couldn't mean what he thought it meant.

"So what do you need to me to do?"

"She must be killed. We cannot have any loose ends."

Killed.

Surely, he must have heard wrong.

"Kill her?"

The man looked at him, frustrated. "Yes. She is a terrorist. She cannot be trusted. It is your duty. Do you understand?"

He felt his breath quicken in his chest and his mind grow dizzy. He'd killed men in war for lesser reasons than this. But it had been so long. Weeks in hospital and months back at home had taken him away from the trigger. He wasn't sure if he still had that fight in him.

John took the folder and pulled it closer to him. "When?"

The man nodded, relieved. "I will accompany you. Tomorrow at nine James has a phone meeting with Shang. We have a tracker on her and we are confident we know where she will be. You will be stationed across the street."

He felt silly that he first thought was that he had to cancel his date in order to commit murder. But the more he looked at the man across from him, the more he knew that this was the right thing to do. A terrorist is a terrorist no matter what they looked like. This was his new job, his new life, his new family. He needed to do whatever it took.

"Alright," he said.

"I will by at your flat at eight. Be inside. I will ring you and you will come out two minutes later, exactly. Do you understand?"

"Yes, sir."

"I will not be in the room with you as you take the shot but we will be radioed together. You will take your gear back with you and meet me at the car after the shot. Do not delay. Understand?"

"Yes, sir."

"Good," he said.

John started to get up but remembered something. "I don't have your name."

The man pulled at the lapels of his jacket to straighten them out. "Sebastian Moran."

"Pleasure," John said as they shook hands.

* * *

He left the house with a whirlwind of emotions encircling him. He had gone so far to escape the battlefield just to be hurtled back to it. But he wasn't scared, quite the opposite.

He was excited.

 


	4. Chapter 4

The car came exactly at eight like Sebastian had said. John waited by the window like a child expecting his parents to come home. He felt antsy to get going and wished he didn't have an escort on his first mission.

The phone rang and John stuck it back in his pocket.

Two minutes.

A quick Google search of James Moriarty had yielded little. He wasn't sure what he had expected. A man with such a large web of contacts would want to keep his name as hidden as possible. The fewer people that knew who he was, the better.

Melinda had been very understanding. She believed his excuse that he had a family emergency to tend to and they rescheduled for the next day. It felt calming to have a normal life again, even if it was just for a few hours a week. It gave his world a sense of stability that was comforting to dip back to when his mind began to race with the memories of the night he was shot.

The investigation into why Lieutenant Arnold came into the medical tent was still unresolved. His widow had claimed that Arnold never appeared depressed at home and was a peaceful passive man. His colleagues all agreed. Arnold was a happy man who went out of his way to help others. That is until his friend from home was killed feet away from him. John had worked for hours to stop the bleeding but it was a fight that was not to be won.

The next few days were evidentially too much for Arnold to handle. The men in his unit said that he withdrew from the group and stayed in bed most of the day. He didn't speak and wouldn't eat and the men were worried he'd starve.

Then, out of nowhere, he rose from his bed and walked the thirty feet to the medical tent where John was performing emergency surgery on a man shot in the leg. All he remembered was the six feet tall Arnold walk in with his gun outstretched in front of him. No sooner did he walk in than he began to fire at the nurses. Lieutenants Grable and Byron were hit first and Dr. Petrov was shot in the neck and fell behind John. He attempted to hide behind the monitors but Arnold was looking for him. He didn't stand a chance. As he ran for his own gun he was hit on the shoulder, an inch above his heart. The pain was excruciating as he fell to the ground and reached for the gun kept in the bottom drawer of his equipment. Even as he bled out, John was able to take a shot.

Arnold died two days later of his abdomen wound. The other three victims weren't as lucky. Two were dead on the scene and Dr. Petrov agonized for an additional week before he succumbed to an infection. John was lucky. He lost a great deal of blood and his heart grew weak from the strain, his wound was purely muscular damage. Even so, since his position required use of both arms he was discharged home.

And there he was, sitting at the edge of a window seat and counting the seconds before he could go out and fight again.

* * *

Sebastian drove quickly down the winding streets of London. It appeared that time was of the essence.

"The artifact," John said. "What was it?"

Sebastian made a sharp turn down an open street. "What?"

"You said that Shang had an expensive artifact. What was it?"

"A hair pin," Sebastian said.

John couldn't help but laugh. "Really?"

Sebastian scowled. "Is that funny to you?"

"No," John said as he erased the smile from his face. "It's just…I mean how valuable could it be?"

"Nine million pounds."

John was hurtled towards his door as Sebastian made another sharp turn. "Nine million? Shit."

"Exactly. We almost had it. Holmes got to before us."

John fiddled with the watch around his wrist. It was a homecoming present from Jim and he forced himself to wear it. He never wore a watch before but it seemed as good a time as any to start. "Holmes?" he said.

Sebastian's eyes rolled. "Sherlock Holmes. He works with the police."

"So he's a detective?"

"No," he said, "he works with them. Consults on cases."

"Why?"

"Jim is obsessed with him. I guess he knows him when they were both lads. I guess he's just one of those genius types who get a thrill out of being smarter than everyone else."

John shoved the watch higher up on his arm in the hopes that it would stay put but instead it just slid back down. "And he has the pin?"

"Apparently. Jim hasn't told me where it ended up. All that matters is that we never got it and Shang was responsible for that."

Screw this, he thought as he pulled the watch off and stuck in his pocket. "What about Holmes? Why don't we deal with him?"

Sebastian stopped hard at the red light. "Jim says he has plans for him. Sounds like this is something he wants to do himself."

* * *

Sebastian let him off at the back entrance of the apartment building that was the vantage point. He had the keys to room 402 and getting inside was a sinch. The building appeared nearly empty and no one looked at him twice as he carried his duffle filled with the rifle on his back.

He hadn't used a sniper since training but he had been a natural. His commander had asked him if he considered taking a leave from the medical tent to work with the sniper team but he had refused at the time. Back then he thought that helping others would keep him from danger. He was wrong.

The gun felt comfortable in his hand, like the body of a long-lost lover. It took him just a minute to assemble it. Shang's room was two floors down but right across the street. She sat in front of the mirror with just the glow of her computer screen illuminating her face.

He waited for the signal.

Through the scope he saw her speak as her expressions went from earnest and confident to desperate and pleading. She spoke frantically and her eyes grew wide as she read the words on her screen.

Sebastian's line clicked in his earpiece.

"Now."

John lifted the gun and positioned Shang's head in the crosshairs. It was simple, almost too easy. He bit his lips as he pulled the trigger. The crack of the gun echoed through the room and the kick-back knocked him off the balls of his feet. But he didn't lose her image in his crosshairs. He watched as the bullet zoomed across two hundred feet of London streets and shattered her window.

Shang fell to the ground and the computer screen glowed in memory of its fallen owner.

"It's done," John said.

"Get to the car."

He packed up the equipment as quickly as he assembled it. The adrenaline made even the dark dank apartment feel vibrant. He hadn't felt so alive in years.


	5. Chapter 5

Jim invited John into the inner circle after Shang was successfully murdered. He no longer had to wait to be contacted and remember the various code words to get in the house. He was welcomed inside and allowed to speak with Jim directly.

Sebastian, however, still hadn't warmed to him. From what John had gathered, Sebastian had been Jim's partner since they were young men. They had met at university. Jim had immediately wormed his way into the upper-crust and gained a number of influential contacts from doctors and lawyers to members of the royal family. Sebastian wasn't as lucky. He had to drop out his sophomore year after his father passed and the money dried up. Immediately he turned to drugs and crime to pass the time and gained the respect of the dealers in London. When the two reunited a few years later, their combined social networks made the business possible.

Jim was running late so it was just the two of them in the living room. Sebastian sat in the ornate chair against the fireplace and perused over a folder of documents. John fiddled with his phone and feigned looking around at the trinkets in the house but thought better of it. If he was to gain this man's respect there was no reason to marvel at statues and paintings. He had to stay focused.

"Is anyone else coming?" John asked.

"Don't believe so," Sebastian said without looking up.

"What do you think this is all about?"

Sebastian sighed. "Not sure."

He felt like a bother but he knew why Sebastian was still upset. It was the "Mommy had a new baby" syndrome. He was threatened by a new member to the business and was overly cautious and distant. John didn't need friends but he did need people with whom he could trust. It was a matter of time before Sebastian would come around. Familiarity would eventually breed loyalty. He'd softened enough officers to know that everyone needs a support system whether you like the system or not.

He'd put on the suit as he felt that this was like the first day of school. He was getting his orders directly—he'd graduated and he needed to dress accordingly.

The door opened to the back of the house and Jim walked inside in his pressed suit and slicked hair. He skated through the kitchen and into the living room like a serpent sliding his way to his destination.

Sebastian set his folder to the side and perked up. John did his best impression of a confident soldier but he was too excited to hold it together. He settled for a stoic expression while his mind darted around from emotion to emotion.

"It's time to put in place  _Domino_."

Sebastian smiled. "Yeah? You think so?"

"It's all in place," Jim said.

"What is that?" John asked.

Sebastian rolled his eyes which made John feel momentarily stupid, like he hadn't been paying attention in class.

Jim sat on the couch next to John. "Holmes. We're taking him down."

"Holmes?" he said. "Why?"

He shook his head. "Why not?"

"But isn't he just working with the police? Did he do something?"

Sebastian chortled in the corner. John restrained himself from saying something nasty back. "He's a threat."

Jim nodded. "We need to get him out of the way."

"Are we killing him?" John asked.

"Oh no, Johnny. Not kill him. Destroy him," Jim said.

"How?" John asked.

Sebastian chimed in. "He's only as powerful as long as he trusted. We set up cases in such a fashion that he cannot solve them. He will be blamed. Public turns against him. The police turn against him. He no longer is a cog in the machine."

"What do you need me for?" John asked.

"When we start," Jim said, "it will move fast. I need people everywhere. If we're going to stop him then it will need to be smooth. Are you getting this?"

John nodded. The plan seemed so vague that it was hard to wrap his head around what Jim implied. But if this Holmes needed to be taken out in order for their business to succeed then he would do whatever it took to make that happen.

"Yes," he said. "I understand."

"Excellent," Jim said. "I need you to go to this address and leave a little gift behind. It's in the boot of your car. This will need to be done this afternoon."

John was handed a card with an address scribbled.  _221C Baker Street._

"You will then text a photo of the scene to this number tomorrow at 2pm exactly. You will then wait for further instruction."

He still felt like he wasn't being told the entire story. Sebastian sat back and smirked. It was clear that John still wasn't to be trusted with the entire plan. But if it took a little longer then that's what it took. He was eager to be a part of a family again.

If taking down Holmes was what it took, then that's what he would do.

He exited the building and got in the car, ready to head to Baker Street.


	6. Chapter 6

There was a pair of trainers in the boot and he could not make any sense out why shoes could be so important. John debated calling up the boss but thought better of it. This plan appeared to be borne out of years of planning and he wasn't one to be the greasy wheel.

Baker Street was unassuming and seemingly unguarded. Even so, John parked down the road and walked two blocks with the trainers in a bag that hung limply around his shoulders.

When he got to 221 he was at a stalemate. It was a residence. He never picked a lock or snuck into a building in his life. This would be harder than it looked. John walked the length of the building looking for an open window or a sign of easy entry. He wasn't so lucky.

Jim had been clear. He had to deliver the trainers now or the plan would quickly disintegrate. Whatever he needed to do, he had to do. John took a deep breath and pressed the doorbell and hoped that whoever opened the door didn't ask many questions.

He buzzed once.

No answer.

"Shit," he muttered. Even this plan wasn't working. He was quickly running out of options.

He buzzed again.

This time he heard shouting from inside the upstairs flat. It was a male voice that seemed to be projecting the entire length of the building.

He buzzed a third time.

From behind the door he heard the scampering of footsteps as they neared him. He held his breath and readied a story to tell whoever opened the door that would be believable.

"Coming!" a chipper voice said as a blurry darkened figure came into view from behind the glass.

He was a city historian.

No, an old tenant.

Plumber.

Shit. The stories fell apart the moment he thought of them.

The door flung open.

"Hello," an older woman said. She was dressed properly with a heavy shawl wrapped around her shoulders. "Can I help you?"

The woman appeared trusting but wary. He wouldn't have many chances to get this right. "I'm here to see a flat."

He prayed this worked.

"Oh?" she said. "Which one?"

"221C?"

Her brow furrowed. He'd screwed up. It was over.

"I'm afraid it's not much to look at it. How did you hear of it?"

He stammered as he spoke much to his own disappointment. Years of war should have hardened him enough to speak to a sixty-year-old woman without sputtering around.

She leaned in. "Did Sherlock tell you? He's always trying to help me with the building ever since I lost my husband."

Sherlock.

How did she know about that man?

He took a gulp and nodded. "Yes," he said, "he did. May I see it?"

She gestured towards the upstairs. "Are you sure you wouldn't like to see the other unit. Sherlock's been looking for a flatmate for so long. I'm sure we can work out some kind of arrangement."

John couldn't say no quickly enough. "That's quite alright," he said. The last person he needed to meet now was this Holmes character.

She smiled. "I understand. He can be quick the case, can't he?"

He smiled back. "May I?" he said.

She grabbed a set of keys from her pocket and gestured towards a set of stairs that led towards the basement. With the flick of the key the door was opened. It was an empty flat, dark and dank with only the smallest threads of light creeping in from the small windows along the north end.

"Just close the door when you're done," she said. "I have eggs on the burners so I have to get back. Call if you'd like it."

"Thank you," he said as he walked towards the center of the room.

John was angry that he'd had such focused face time with this woman but it was necessary. He was in the room and it would only take a moment to finish the job. As the woman walked away he grabbed the bag and set it on the floor. The trainers were then placed in the middle of the room right in the one beam of sunlight in the entire room. He was rather proud of himself. It looked quiet poetic as he stepped back.

As he went to the door, he heard a male voice scurry above him.

"…off, Mrs. Hudson."

It was on the ground level. It had to be Holmes. He held his breath just in case the man had super hearing along with everything else. John was so close to getting out.

The woman chimed in. "Your friend…flat…basement."

Shit.

He moved towards the window in case he needed a quick escape.

"Friend?" he said.

"Blonde…small side. Said…told…about it." He could only hear the conversation in bits and pieces.

He listened for footsteps down the stairs. If Holmes was any kind of detective he would check this out and John knew it. He opened the window and leapt for the ledge to hoist himself up. It was clumsy and he still had the bag wrapped around his arm, which made the jump even more difficult, but he got his foot on the windowsill.

That's when he heard the footsteps coming down the stairs. They were slow and steady like any suspicious investigator would use. John knew he had a few extra seconds or he'd surely be shot on his way out.

He swung his other leg over and crawled under the open window.

A few more inches he would be out.

His bag caught on the edge of the window and nearly pulled him back into the flat.

He yanked on the strap. It was caught on something. There wasn't time for this.

The footsteps were so close. He couldn't be the reason this fails.

John groped at the strap and desperately pawed at the loop that it was caught on. "C'mon," he gasped as the strap finally fell and he was free. John crawled onto the sidewalk and leapt to his feet. There was no time for a plan. He ran as fast as he could.

 


	7. Chapter 7

By the time he got back to his flat, Sebastian was already inside with a stern expression. He knew that it had not gone to plan but he was petrified that it this meant expulsion or maybe worse.

"What is it?" he asked.

Sebastian tapped the chair arm beside him. "The first step in progress."

He breathed a sigh of relief. "Oh good."

Sebastian shook his head. "No," he said, "not good."

John tried to back away in case this was how it all ended. He held his breath and waited for the bang.

"You were clumsy. Stupid, really. The doorbell? I mean what were you thinking?"

John nervously fiddled with the zipper of his jacket. "I didn't know how else to get in."

"You break in. You figure it out. You  _do not_  ring the goddamn doorbell."

"I know," he said.

"I mean you were almost spotted. Holmes nearly saw you. Do you know how long Jim has been working on this plan? Do you know how much is at stake? And you're ringing the doorbell!"

"I didn't know…" John began to say.

Sebastian laughed. "No shit."

He felt attacked and the anxiety began to grab hold. "It won't happen again."

"You're damn right it won't happen again."

John backed himself against the wall and forced the breath into his lungs. He did not want to have an anxiety attack right now. This was already humiliating enough.

Sebastian pulled a sheet out of his jacket pocket. "For some reason Jim still wants you on. Here's your next assignment."

John walked over and snagged the sheet.

"But this is your last chance. No more of this nonsense."

"I understand."

Sebastian wrung his hands together. "I didn't want to hire you on but Jim was adamant that you were a good choice. You're a good shot but that's not enough. You have to show you can handle this or we'll have to get rid of you. Do you understand?"

He prayed that he didn't. Was he another loose thread? Did this mean that he'd be killed if he screwed up again?

"I do," he said.

Sebastian's eyelids lowered under he glared at John. "Holmes has already solved the first case. You're in charge of fetching the man on the paper and taking him to the address to be suited up. I have the vests already prepared. It isn't hard, Doctor."

The words that Sebastian said felt like he was speaking gibberish. But it didn't much matter. This was his last chance. "It's done," he said.

Sebastian hoisted himself up from the chair and strode past John on his way out of the flat.

"It better be."

* * *

John was to go to go to the flat of Marcus Peterson about twenty blocks away. He was told that Marcus needed to be held captive in the flat until Sebastian arrived with the vest that he spoke of. John wasn't given any instructions on how to incapacitate the man so he packed everything that he could think of. There was a vile of highly potent sedatives that he'd kept from his rehabilitation. He also packed his pistol as well as an intimidating large kitchen knife in case it came to that.

The flat was just as unassuming as all the others in the area. It was brown, brick and rundown. As badly as he didn't want to do it again, John rang the doorbell. But this time he had a plan.

As the bell trilled through the building he grabbed the pistol from his bag and transferred it under his jacket. This finger itched against the trigger, ready to take action the moment was necessary.

A man came to the door soon after the bell was wrung. He wore workout clothes and appeared highly distracted as he looked out at the stranger at his premises.

"Hello?" he asked.

John gestured inside. "Marcus?"

"Yeah."

"May I come in?"

He looked at him, confused. "Do I know you?"

There was no time to play games. John barreled past Marcus into the foyer of the flat. John kicked the door behind him with a vigorous thrust. "I need you to go upstairs," he said as he lowered his voice and spoke slowly and pointedly.

"What?"

John pulled the gun out from under his jacket and pointed it at Marcus' head. "I said go upstairs."

Marcus' arms went up in surrender. "What's going on?"

John wiggled the gun violently from side to side as he gestured towards the stairwell. "Now!" he shouted.

Marcus ran past him and towards the stairs. He had his head cowered down as he raced up the steps. The pair went into his small flat and John pushed him against the wall with his hand wrapped around the boy's neck.

"You try anything funny then I will shoot you. Understand?"

Marcus had tears in his eyes. "Yes," he choked out.

John jerked his hand back and Marcus fell against the wall and clutched his throat.

It was going according to plan. Marcus seemed terrified and he was ahead of schedule.

"Sit down!" John said as Marcus appeared to begin wandering around the flat.

"Where?" he said.

"There," John said as he pointed towards a chair across from the television. "Don't move."

Marcus walked to the chair and sat down. He pulled his knees up to his chest and hugged his ankles. "Take whatever you want," he said. "I don't care. Just please don't hurt me."

John tuned the kid out. He was barely able to do this without some sense of morality kicking in. This was his own life at stake. If this was what needed to be done then so be it.

He dialed Sebastian's number according to the plan.

"He's here," he said.

"Is he contained?"

John cocked the gun and moved closer to Marcus. He placed the barrel against the boy's head. "He's not going anywhere."

"I'll be there in one minute. Don't do anything stupid, eh?"

John shoved the phone back in his pocket and grabbed Marcus' shoulder and pressed it against the back of the chair until he was pinned under John's hand.

"Why are you doing this?"' Marcus asked. His lips quivered and tears fell down his cheeks.

"Shut up," John said.

"I didn't do anything," he said. "I didn't do anything…"

John looked up at the ceiling to get the image of the kid's face out of his mind.

"I'll do whatever you want," he said. "Just let me go."

John pressed the barrel in even harder. "Stop talking."

Sebastian burst through the door just in time—he wasn't sure how much longer he could have done that. "Good work," he said.

John saw the duffel that Sebastian placed gently on the floor next to Marcus chair. "What are you doing?" he asked.

Sebastian didn't answer. He was too busy pulling out the vest from the bag. John immediately saw the wires and explosives adhered to the front. His stomach dropped to his feet.

They were going to kill the kid.

Sebastian gestured John over. "Help me get this on him."

He wanted to argue. Marcus was innocent. What was the point in his death? But he couldn't say that. He didn't know the whole story and his own life was still in the balance. There was no ethical wiggle room.

John walked over to the chair grabbed Marcus' other arm.

The boy had stopped resisting so it was simple to slip the other side of the vest over his right side. Sebastian maneuvered to the front of the vest and snapped it into place. He then took off his own jacket and handed it to Marcus.

"Put this on."

It was a puff jacket that engulfed the poor boy. He slipped it on without question and stood in his own home strapped with explosives. John waited for an explanation.

Sebastian placed an earpiece on Marcus and backed away, pleased with his work.

"Now Marcus, listen carefully."

Marcus kept his head bowed and gripped his hands tightly to keep from showing how terrified he was feeling. John knew that trick well.

"You will walk across the street and wait four minutes. At that point you will dial the number programmed into this phone." He placed a cell phone in the pocket of the jacket. "At that point you will begin to hear a voice through your earpiece. You will repeat word for word what that voice is saying. Do not try to be clever. We are listening in and if you deviate one word you will killed."

Marcus nodded.

"You will be speaking to a very intelligent man. He will try to manipulate you but do not fall for his tricks. You say what we tell you to say, nothing more. Do you understand?"

Again he nodded.

Sebastian patted the boy on the shoulder. "Good man."

The three of them stood in the flat in silence.

After what felt like an eternity, Sebastian shouted to Marcus, "Go!"

Marcus leapt in fright but quickly turned on his heels and headed towards the door.

Sebastian smiled as he headed towards the window. He gestured over to John. "Eh, come 'ere. Let's watch."


	8. Chapter 8

Marcus crossed the street and even from fifty feet away John could see that he was shaking.

"What's happening?" he asked.

Sebastian smiled. "Next puzzle."

"What is it?"

"You don't need to know," Sebastian said.

John felt frustrated like a schoolboy being excluded from a game. "Why is that?"

Marcus pulled the phone and held it up to his ear. "Because it only matters if Holmes solves it."

"And if he doesn't?"

Sebastian gestured towards his jacket pocket.

"What?" John asked.

"Marcus dies."

"No," John said in disbelief. "The vest?"

Sebastian pulled out a small detonator from his pocket and held it up for John to see. "Jim's monitoring the phone call. We'll get a ring if he goes off script."

John looked back out at the boy and felt genuine pity.

The phone call went without incident and John was released to go home to await his next job. As he stepped inside he felt the first shred of doubt in the whole situation. He opened up his laptop to research this Holmes character that was such an obstacle as to deserve this kind of orchestration.

A simple search revealed a directory of investigations that had been solved by the London PD in conjunction with their consultant. Mixed amongst the articles was the man's personal blog. He clicked on the link and was overwhelmed by the pure glut of detail that splashed onto the screen.

There were articles that were as long as novellas and had more Latin than whole courses in medical school. Everything was so meticulously researched and cataloged. He couldn't help but marvel at the mind behind such detail.

At the same time he was intensely discouraged. Any one person who could commit such laser focus to every minutia of day to day would be nearly impossible to outsmart. What was the point of this exercise? What were they even trying accomplish through all of this?

Just as he was about turn in for the night his phone rang again. He still tried to shake the guilt he felt at holding a gun to an innocent man and he wasn't excited about continuing this game with Holmes. It seemed petty and risky. For a man who had more money than he'd ever need, why would Jim focus so intensely on a man who did nothing but help solve low-grade crimes for the city. There had to be more to it than that.

"Hello?"

He expected Sebastian but was surprised when the voice on the other side was Jim.

"John. I have a favor to ask."

He sounded so calm. It was disarming. "What is it?"

"I've been working on chatting up the scientist that fancies Holmes for the last week and it is not going according to plan. I need you to work on her."

"What are you talking about?"

"Sebastian is coming by with an ID. You're going to be a new research associate and working in the lab with her. I need to get someone on the inside. You up for it?"

He implied it like a question but it was clearly an order.

"Why?" he asked.

Jim sighed. "John…why all the questions. It's not necessary."

"I just don't understand. What do you want me to do with her?"

"Chat her up. Get her interested. She's not much of a catch—I'm sure it'll be simple. Holmes is in her lab constantly. I need you to be around and see where he is—keep tabs."

"Couldn't you just have cameras or something?" He didn't know why he kept arguing. The harder he tried to stop talking the more words that burst from his lips. He couldn't turn it off.

"When do I start?"

"Tomorrow at 8. She's expecting you. Don't be late."

He threw his phone on the bed and tried to make sense of the next job. It felt like a set-up. It felt like he was being thrown to the wolves as a sacrifice. Something had gone wrong and they needed a scapegoat. This Holmes character could identify a man's job from a loose strand on their jacket—he'd see through John in an instant.

* * *

John could hardly sleep the whole night. His mind raced as he tried to figure a way out of this arrangement but he knew it was moot. He was in too deep. If he tried to get out now they would find him.

He walked bleery-eyed to St. Bart's and to the third floor lab where he was to report for work. At first there was no one inside and he feared the worst. There was no girl. It was an ambush.

"Hello?" he said cautiously.

From behind a set of shelves a young woman in a high ponytail appeared. She had a sweet smile and shy eyes. "Oh hello," she said. "Are you Dr. Nathanson?"

He took a look at the ID they'd given him. Jack Nathanson.

"Yes," he said as he stuck out his hand for a shake.

She put the pile of books that she held in her arms down on the table in front of her and put out her hand. "Molly. Molly Hooper."

They stood silently for a few moments as Molly gestured to a table behind them. "So did they tell you what you were supposed to be working on?"

Shit.

He had no idea.

He smiled and leaned in to her. "No, I can't say they did."

She smiled back. This was a sweet girl. He hoped and prayed that they weren't planning on doing anything to her.

"Well," she said as she began to walk towards the table, "you could take a measurement of the potassium levels in these for right now. I was about to do it but I got distracted."

He laughed. "I know how that goes."

It had been so long since he'd had to chat up a woman who wasn't already motivated to sleep with him. Melinda was already three drinks when they met at the bar so flirting was effortless.

She laughed. "I was about grab some coffee. Would you like some?"

He only had one job and that was to get her to like him. He forced all of his muscles to relax and put a hand on her shoulder. She didn't move away. So far, so good. "May I come with? Do you mind?"

She shook her head, surprised at the offer. "No, not at all," she said. "It's just upstairs."


	9. Chapter 9

They spent the afternoon getting to know each other. Molly was someone with whom he would have normally dated before he went to Afghanistan. She was precisely the kind of girl that his friends used to set him up with—the sweet non-threatening girl with a bit of a dark streak.

All he could think of as they raced around the lab was what the end goal of talking to Molly. From what he could gather she wasn't aware of anything that Jim was so obsessed with. Her life appeared to be working in the hospital and going home to her dogs.

"Afghanistan?" she said with surprise. "That's amazing."

The conversation had snaked its way to his background. He still wasn't savvy enough to come up with an alternate backstory for his alter-ego so he stuck with what he knew.

Amazing was not the word he'd usually associated with his military life nor did most others. "Well," he said shyly, "I wanted to do something important."

They were cleaning up the lab for the day and were nearly done. Molly's ponytail had loosened and she looked beautiful as she smiled under the soft light of the workroom. It was strange having someone be so unguardingly nice to him after so many years of anger and anxiety.

"I think it is very brave. I could never do something like that."

"I bet you could," he said.

She shrugged. "Maybe. I've always wanted to go Africa to study the birds. Stupid, right?" She turned away, embarrassed.

"Not at all. If you want to do, do it."

"I don't know," she said.

Just as he was about put away his last box of beakers, the doors burst open and a figure strode through without so much as looking over at them.

"Excuse me…" he began to say.

Molly placed a hand on his forearm to silently interrupt him.

"What do you need?" she asked.

The figure grabbed a stool from an adjacent table and carried it towards the microscope at the corner.

"Blood sample," he said. "Need to look at it."

He looked over at Molly and she seemed fine with the stranger making himself at home in her workplace. "Do you want me to stay?"

He didn't look up as he spoke. "If you'd like."

Molly played with the end of her ponytail. She seemed to have devolved to a nervous teenager since the man walked inside. "Well," she said as she turned to John, "you don't have to stay."

He took a few steps back and beckoned Molly towards him. "Who is that?" he whispered.

"Oh, that's just Sherlock. He comes in sometimes for his cases. It's fine. They don't mind."

His heart beat fast.

He was in here. This was what he sent over to do and now he felt helpless. What was he supposed to be learning? The veil of potential failure began to sink and wrap itself around him. A part of him wanted to run. But he remembered the hours he spent on the man's blog just the night before. There was something about Holmes that enthralled him.

"No," John said, "I've got no plans."

Molly looked disappointed but quickly recovered. She continued to clean but kept looking behind her and at Holmes. John felt pity for her. The poor girl was smitten and was getting nothing in return.

John waited for a phone call, a text, anything to tell him what to do. He stood there and just watched as Holmes leaned over a microscope. He felt fundamentally useless.

"Pen…" Holmes said as he stuck his hand out to side. John looked all around to see if he was talking to someone in particular. Molly was across the room with a box of supplies in her arms. John made his move.

He snatched a pen from the counter and put it in Holmes' hand. He noticed that there was no paper on which to write so he placed a notepad next to the microscope.

There was no thank you or even an acknowledgement of the deed. If he was to learn anything about Holmes he would need to work harder.

"What are you working on?" he asked.

Holmes' head cocked just slightly and Molly shot John a dirty look.

"What?" he mouthed to Molly.

Molly brought over a box and set it besides Holmes. She then looked up John and put a finger to her mouth to instruct him to be quiet.

He wasn't going to make Jim happy by not talking.

"Is there anything you need?"

Again no answer.

This was harder than it looked. He moved in closer and put out his hand. "Dr. Jack Nathanson. I'm new in town, just helping Molly."

Holmes eyes darted over to John and looked him up from head to toe and went back to his microscope. "No you're not."

"Excuse me?" he said.

"You're not new in town."

John laughed to masked the fact that he'd been caught in a lie. "I am…" he began to say.

Holmes turned to face John. "You're accent, for one, is of a man who has been raised in London. There are bits of inflection of a man who spent substantial time in the north I presume for school but that would not disguise your voice. St. Bart's has a particular indexing system for its materials and I doubt that Molly has had the chance to instruct you yet you knew where everything was to be placed which leads me to believe you worked here in the past. Would you like me to continue?"

John was speechless. He'd hardly said ten words to the man and he'd already been found out. What he wanted to do was deny everything that Holmes had said but, deep down, he was intensely impressed.

He couldn't help but to whisper, "Wow."

Even from behind the microscope, John could see Sherlock smile.

He wasn't sure that this would be as easy as they thought.

 


	10. Chapter 10

Molly and John played a game of chicken and each waited for the other to leave first. He felt bad for her—she was clearly enamored by Holmes but he hardly acknowledged her existence. John stepped up his advances in the hope that another man's interest would distract her but it did little to calm her crush.

Two hours after Holmes' arrival Molly finally gave in and left for the day. He made tentative plans to bring her coffee in the morning, just the way she liked it, and he finally got a smile. If he needed to stay undercover long then he would need Molly on his side and blocking the mind-reading power of Holmes.

John stayed out of the man's way since interrupting or interjecting appeared to annoy and frustrate him to no end. He mingled about in the periphery and listened to the mumbling commentary of the man behind the microscope. Three hours after he arrived Holmes looked up to see John still there.

"More paper," he said as he put out his hand.

John grabbed a few sheets from a nearby drawer and put them in front of Holmes.

"Are you any closer to figuring it out?" John asked.

"I'm in a bit of a rush," Holmes said. "So if you please…"

Even if it was all play-acting he was getting a bit tired of being ignored. He moved in closer to look at the notes Holmes had already taken. He saw inklings of medical terms and chemistry formulas but it didn't coalesce into anything substantial. Jim wanted him here, but why.

Just then he got a text.

_His time's almost up. Distract him._

He felt his heart beat harder. The man was like a rock. How would he be able to distract someone like that?

"I looked at your blog. Very fascinating."

Holmes stopped moving for bit and slowly looked up. Compliments. It was almost like he didn't know what to do with them. John kept going. "So much information. Where did you find it?"

Holmes pulled his eyes completely away from the scope. "I didn't find it."

"How do you mean?"

There was a slight smile that crossed his face. "I did the work. Obviously."

 _Obviously_. John contained himself long enough to continue the conversation. "And have the police used your findings? I mean they must."

Holmes shrugged. "At times. There are some that don't find it useful."

John smiled. "Well that's stupid, eh? I mean if you've gone to such lengths to catalog every kind of tobacco or fabric fiber they'd be fools not to use it."

"And yet they don't…" Holmes gestured towards the beakers and other instruments. "Could you hand me the tweezers?"

John hopped to the tweezers and put them just out of Holmes reach. Every second delayed was serving his purpose. "It was quite spectacular what you figured about me. I thought I had Molly fooled."

He had run out of ideas. All he had left was the personal gambit.

"I also see your military. Injured I imagine."

"How…"

Holmes set the instrument down and looked John from head to toe again. "Arm. You hurt your arm."

"Well…"

He leaned forward. "But that's not why you're back. You've been using both arms the entire time you've been in here. There is no obvious injury that would prevent you from staying in the force. No, there's something else."

John wished he hadn't opened the can of worms. Standing in from Holmes made him feel like his entire life story was on display and he had no control over which parts were highlighted and exposed. John crossed his arms and started to step backwards.

"It was mental, wasn't it?" Holmes said with glee. "They sent you back for that."

John scowled. He couldn't help himself from reacting. "I mean…"

Holmes had a smile on his face that appeared to droop as John's enthusiasm slowly faded. "Was I right?"

John shrugged. "I mean, yes to a point."

Holmes didn't seem interested in pressing the details. The confession hung in the air like a fog. He couldn't comprehend how he had been solved so quickly. Was his illness that obvious that a complete stranger could parcel it out in a matter of minutes.

A part of him wanted to stick with the script. There were a thousand ways to distract a person without revealing personal details. He could just punch Holmes in the face at this rate and achieve the same effect. But there was something inside of him that couldn't let it go.

"Why do you say that?"

"Hm?" Holmes asked he wrote numbers down on the sheet of paper.

"That it was mental. Why would you say that?"

He gestured towards John's arm. "You have near-full mobility and an impairment would be the only reason that you would not be working anymore. Medical personnel are not commonly on the front lines, which would be the only reason you'd receive an injury at all. You were either ambushed in your facilities and shot or you were asked to go to the front lines and were shot. Either would ignite a traumatic reaction. _That_  would send you home. That is why I say that."

John didn't want to admit Holmes was right. He bit his tongue to keep from saying another word. "I see."

There was a gasp, a shout of "of course" and Holmes jumped up and grabbed his papers. "What?" John asked.

"I have it. I must go."

He hadn't killed enough time. Holmes was leaving. He had to figure something out.

"Let me take you," John offered.

Holmes flung his coat over his back and tightened his scarf. "Oh that's not necessary."

John dug through his pocket and grabbed the keys of the car that Jim had lent him for the week. "I insist. It'd be an honor."

Holmes didn't seem to know how to react so he just walked forward without another argument, which John took as a tacit agreement.

He'd have to do whatever it took to keep Holmes from solving the case.

Whatever it took.


	11. Chapter 11

"Take a left," Holmes said as they approached the next intersection.

John could feel his heart beat in his ears. It appeared that his passenger was in a rush so whatever he had to do solve the case couldn't be done on his mobile. It was clear that it needed to be done at a computer or at least his residence.

He acted like he didn't hear Holmes and took a right at the light.

"What are you doing?"

John didn't respond. He went down the street at a normal pace as to not alert Holmes that anything was amiss.

"Did you hear me? I said turn left."

John gestured towards his ear. "Eh? Sorry, didn't hear you. Bad ear."

Holmes looked at him with doubt. "Well turn left at the end of this street."

John did as he was told this time but blew past the next light.

"What do you think you're doing? Let me out," Holmes said.

John kept driving as Holmes' phone rang. He had the volume at its top level and John could hear an elderly woman's voice on the other line.

"Please, I know the answer," Holmes said. "I can't get to my computer. Just give me a few moments."

There was mumbling on the other end. It sounded as if the woman was crying as she tried to speak.

"It was the housekeeper," he said.

More mumbling.

"The Botox. He killed her with the injections."

Holmes' face grew more desperate as he spoke. John turned left and back towards Baker Street. His guilt was gnawing at him.

"Hurry," Holmes pleaded as John picked up speed.

He turned back to his phone call. "Just give me two minutes. I'll send it to you."

John felt his own phone vibrate.

_Good work._

Shit, he thought. What had he done?

"No, please. Stop talking," Holmes said.

There was clear crying on the other line.

"Stop. Do what he says—"

There was a shattering bomb that burst through the other line. Holmes pulled the phone from his ear and winced at the sudden noise. He slowly lowered the phone to the seat of the car and stared out the window. His face had fallen and John could see that he was angry and upset. He needed to get Holmes out of the car as fast as possible or he'd be found out or beaten up, whatever his passenger felt like doing first.

"Sorry, mate," John said.

Holmes blinked away his frustrations and faced towards the front. "Take a right," he said.

"You alright?" John asked.

Holmes' eyebrow raised. "Alright? Yes, I'm fine. I do need to get to my flat. Down this street."

John had already begun the turn before he was instructed and he knew that Holmes hadn't missed that. He'd given away that he'd been here before. So many stupid mistakes that he was positive he'd have to account for later.

He parked in front of the flat but Holmes didn't get out right away. He sat there and looked out the window as if expecting a visitor.

"This the right place?" John asked. He wanted nothing more than to get the man out of his car.

Holmes looked out but his mind still seemed a thousand miles away. He nodded distractedly and made a motion towards the handle. Just as he opened the door a crack and stepped a foot on the concrete he turned back towards John.

"You want some tea?"

John shook his head. "I'm alright."

He plastered on a smile that looked unnatural. John felt an uneasy sense that this wasn't good manners at work. "Just a bit. You were quite a help today. Mrs. Hudson will make a pot. Come."

John wrapped his fingers tighter around the steering wheel. "I really shouldn't. I'm expected back…"

Holmes cocked an eyebrow. "You live alone. You are not expected anywhere."

John felt the lump in his throat grow. There was something hypnotic and terrifying about Holmes. It felt like he was arguing a concrete wall that would not take no for an answer. There was no hiding behind any more lies. If he didn't go upstairs he knew that Holmes would simply follow him to his flat. He'd made himself available and he'd have to take the consequences.

As he took the keys out of the lock he pulled out his phone and hurriedly sent a message.

_In his flat. Send help._

A part of him knew that he was alone.

And there was no telling what Sherlock would do to get revenge.


	12. Chapter 12

He followed Sherlock without question up the stairs. For all he knew there were three guns in his pockets and he wasn't risking death for dumb acts of bravery. They walked the flight of stairs and Sherlock pushed John through the door and into the flat.

It was filled with equipment and materials. John walked to the middle of the room and tried to make sense of the place that he had just been taken. There were sharp instruments and bottles of unnamed liquids on every surface. He knew that if he didn't think fast then this could be deadly.

"Sit."

John looked around the room to see where Holmes decided he should go.

"Where?"

He pointed to an angular black chair in the middle of the room. "There."

John did as he was told all while looking for an escape. There was an open window behind him and fireplace pokers a few feet from the chair. But Holmes watched his every move so he couldn't do anything yet. He would need to be patient.

"Place your hands in front of you."

John didn't comply at first. He had been captured before. If he gave in to every demand then he would have lost all of his leverage. He kept his hands at his side.

Holmes strode closer. "Hands in front."

John stood his ground.

Holmes cocked his head. "I see."

"What?" John said without thinking.

"You are protecting someone."

He shook his head. "Why would you say that."

Holmes grabbed a small figurine from a side table and held it in his fist. "Who are you protecting?"

John pulled his lips in tight.

"Is it the man behind the phone calls?"

He turned his head away as Holmes pulled back the arm with the figurine.

"One more chance. Who are you working for?"

John shut his eyes tight. He couldn't give himself away. That would mean certain death. He had to hold out.

He felt the impact before the pain. The cold metal of the figurine scrapped against the side of his face and he felt his jawbone bend and fracture. It wasn't until the figurine was back on the table that he yelped in pain.

"Shit," he muttered as he cradled his injured face. "What was that."

"Hands in front of you."

John looked up to see the barrel of gun pointed at his head.

He'd lost the game. John put his hands out for Holmes to see.

"Excellent."

Holmes grabbed a roll of duct tape and began to wrap John's wrists tightly together. He moved down to John's ankles and wrapped those as well. Holmes popped up with the gun at his side.

"No tell me who you're working for."

John tried to wiggle his hands free but they were too tightly bound. "Why should I?"

"Because I will kill you if you don't."

Holmes looked at him with sincerity but John felt something primal. "No you won't."

He cocked an eyebrow. "Excuse me?"

"You won't kill me."

Holmes pulled the gun up to John's head. "Yes I will."

It was a risky game but he knew that he was right. "You won't. You don't have it in you."

Holmes pushed the barrel into the skin on John's temple. He could feel the indentations burying into his skull. He'd met hundreds of soldiers and it took mere moments to assess whether they were cut out for the frontlines. Holmes was not. He was all talk.

"And if you kill me, what will you get?"

Holmes looked at him with steely confusion. "I will find out without you."

"No you won't. You have no idea what's going on, do you?"

Holmes took a step back but the gun was still pointed at John's head. "I do."

"No you don't."

"You can't trick me," he said. "I know more about you than you think."

John shook his head. "To what end. You know I'm a soldier but what does that get you?"

Holmes put the gun back in his jacket and strode towards the kitchen.

"What are you doing?"

He'd made him angry. John regretted his outbursts but he knew that he would have to fight fire with fire. This was a man whose entire personality was his pride and knowledge. He would have to wear him out and make him feel inferior if he was to get his way.

Holmes didn't answer.

John knew he had taken it too far. He'd poked the bear and now he would be mauled. He had to pull back and be friendly if only for a moment or he'd surely be eaten. "You were right though," he said.

Holmes didn't answer but he looked up for just a moment to show John that he'd heard.

"About the trauma. Even my therapist couldn't figure that out about me."

Pride. Play to his pride, John.

He just hoped it wasn't too late.

 


	13. Chapter 13

Holmes stood in the center of the room seemingly weighing his options. "I was right…" he said quietly.

John pounced on whatever he could. "Yes," he said. "You were right about the trauma."

Holmes walked over with crossed arms. "Which one?"

"Which what?"

"Which trauma."

"Oh," John said not terribly overjoyed at having to relive the moment all over again with another stranger. "The one about an attack on the med center."

"I knew it," he said. "That one seemed more likely."

John nodded. "I can help you," he said, "but not if I'm all tied up."

Holmes crossed in front of him and didn't acknowledge John's mild pleas for release. "You gave Molly a fake name, obviously."

John kept his face neutral as to not give away an more information.

"But why…"

John thought Holmes had long figured out this part of the plan.

"Did you know about the laptop and the answers?"

"The what?"

Holmes brought his hand to his lips and sussed out his reasoning. "They didn't tell you much, did they?"

"Who didn't?"

John had lost him. His words meant nothing to this man and he was still trapped in this room without any help. He had sent the text nearly twenty minutes ago. Where was the backup? Where was the help?

Holmes' phone rang again. There were a series of beeps and then Holmes brought the screen closer to his face. "Thames…" he muttered.

"What?" John asked.

"Nothing." Holmes furiously searched his mobile as John twisted his wrists against the tape that was slowly loosening with each manipulation of his arm. If he had a few more minutes he could get out.

Why weren't they here?

John pulled at the tape and could feel its edges giving way just a little. There was a chance he could get out of this. He could get out.

He didn't feel the explosion right away. John felt the rush of air fly past his head and tip his chair forward.

Then the noise.

It was deafening.

Car sirens wailed in the distance and the former wall sizzled from the quickly extinguished fire.

John was thrown face-first onto the floor and felt his nose break upon impact. He shouted in pain but no one could hear him. He put a hand to his face to feel his injured parts and then realized that he freed of his arm restraints. Carefully he rolled over onto his back and worked on picking apart the tape the that held his feet to the chair. With a few tears he was freed. John got up to get out when he heard groaning from across the room.

The soldier in him said to leave but the doctor in him knew that he had to help.

The entire north wall of the flat had been blown out and bits of glass and wood were scattered across the floor. John gingerly stepped over it all to get to Holmes who lay on the ground against the couch.

"Eh, you alright?"

Holmes was conscious but seemed dazed. "You got out…"

John made a show of his freed wrists. "I guess so. Let me check out your head, alright?"

There was a large gash on the back of his head that bled down his neck and onto the floor. That would need stitches. He noticed Holmes' left arm cocked at a strange angle underneath his body.

"Can you roll over a bit?" John asked.

"Roll…over?" Holmes asked. "Yes…I can."

His speech was slurred. John knew that his head injury could be more than just a cut. He most certainly had a concussion if not something worse. When Holmes didn't move on his own, John moved the man's left side just enough to take a look at his arm. It was broken in at least one place from the way it lay under his body. John pulled out his mobile and dialed for help.

"…yes a man with a serious head injury and broken bones. He needs immediate attention."

The woman on the other end said they were aware of the explosion and were already on their way. While still on the line, John unwrapped Holmes' scarf and pressed it against his head to curtail some of the bleeding. As badly as he wanted to leave he knew that he had a duty to stay with an injured man whether it meant he'd be caught or not.

As the police and ambulance sirens wailed in the distance, John's phone rang.

Jim.

"Hello?" he said.

"You all right?" he asked.

John attempted to bite his tongue but he was too frazzled to contain himself. "I don't know. Maybe. What the hell was that?" he asked.

"Is Holmes alive?"

"Yes," John said, "but he's not doing great. What was the point of that?"

"Don't let them take you to hospital. We'll be there to get you in five minutes. I'd leave now and stay out of sight."

"He's injured," John said. "I can't leave him alone."

"John," Jim snarled, "you listen to me. He means nothing. Let him die. Just get out of there."

He couldn't listen to another word. John hung up the phone and stuck it back in his pocket.

He was staying with his patient.


	14. Chapter 14

He felt utterly betrayed as he sat by Holmes' side and waited for the authorities to come so he could escape. They had made him the patsy, the lure, so they could try to hurt their target. There was no way they could have known that John would be able to survive the blast and he suspected that they didn't much care if he had lived or not.

The sirens of the ambulance wailed in the distance. Holmes appeared to be stable but he still didn't feel comfortable leaving him alone in the rubble. All in all he didn't seem like a bad man. He didn't deserve to be left so vulnerable when Jim's men were coming up right behind the ambulances and willing to do whatever it took to destroy him further.

There was a squeal of tires around the corner and he heard his phone ring again. It was the fourth time it had rang since the blast he still hadn't answered. At first it was out of anger but now it was out of fear. He'd defied his orders yet again. They'd already tried to kill him once today, what was stopping them from doing it again?

"Hello?"

"Why aren't you down here?" shouted Sebastian.

John pressed harder against Holmes' head as he felt the detective groan in agonized consciousness. "I can't."

"Why the hell can't you? You need to get out of there."

"He's hurt," John said.

"No shit. That was the point. Leave him there. Let's go."

Holmes' eyes fluttered open and he stared up at John in confusion. "Where am I?" he asked.

"Just relax," John whispered. "They're coming to help you."

Holmes nodded and settled back down.

"We're coming up if you don't get down here."

"Fine," John said. "I'm not leaving."

He felt his entire body shake as he said the words. It felt liberating and unnatural simultaneously. There was no telling what would happen once they entered the room.

The car doors slammed outside and heard footsteps pound against the concrete and then up the stairs. He steeled himself for their entrance.

Sebastian was the first to enter the room with his gun out and the barrel pointed at John's face. "Get up."

"No," John said. The anger of being lured into a bear trap had reignited his bravery. He stayed on the ground even as Sebastian took steps forward with the pistol coming closer and closer to his skull.

"Now or I will shoot you."

"No you won't."

Sebastian laughed. "Is that right? I will."

"You need me. Why would you come back for me if you don't need me."

Silence.

Sebastian turned to his two lackeys and then pointed down at Holmes on the ground. "Pick him up."

"What?" John said.

"We're taking him with us."

John jumped up. "No. He needs a hospital. He has a head injury."

"You're a doctor," he said. "You can work him."

"No," John said. "I need equipment. I can't help him without it."

"We'll get you what you need. Boys…" Sebastian pointed to the weary Holmes and the two men grabbed an arm a piece and flung him over their shoulders. Within moments Holmes was gone and being whisked down the stairs as John stared in disbelief. This was far from over.

Sebastian smiled. "Now let's go."

"But…" John started but he had nothing else to say. He had no more bargaining power. He bowed his head and stepped over the rubble of bookshelves and broken lamps and down the stairs.

Holmes was settled in the backseat with his head laying against one of the men's shoulders.

"Put pressure on his wound," John said as he strapped in the front seat. He handed back the scarf he'd been using before. The man took it and did as he was told. John sat back in his seat utterly defeated.

This was far from over.

It had only just begun.

 


	15. Chapter 15

"Are you a bloody idiot?" John shouted as they turned the corner.

"Jesus, John, will you just shut up?" Sebastian said.

Holmes sat in the back looking more peaked and lethargic than when they'd left. He surely had a concussion and perhaps worse and John knew there was nothing he could do on his end but sit and watch him deteriorate.

"He'll die. Do you understand that?"

"Then that's what happens, alright. Jim will take care of everything. Just be quiet. You're giving me a headache."

John slumped back in his seat while the adrenaline still coursed through his system. He could hardly focus second to second. There was no way that this ended with him alive. They were going to do something and he needed to outsmart them. But how.

* * *

They arrived at Franklin Street and the men dragged Holmes into the house ahead of John and Sebastian.

"Eh mate," Sebastian said as they approached the house.

John didn't want to talk any longer. His entire body ached and his day had only just begun. "What?" he snapped.

"No need for anger. We're all on the same team here."

John glared. "Are we? I'm fairly certain you tried to kill me back there?"

"Kill you? John. C'mon."

"What would you call that?"

Sebastian smirked. "Neutralizing Holmes. It had nothing to do with you. You weren't even supposed to be there."

"But I  _was_ there. And you still went through with it."

"John," Sebastian said, "we've been working on that part of the plan for weeks. We're not going to abandon it just because you screwed up. Now get inside and do your job."

"Which is?"

"Keep Holmes alive long enough for Jim to get to speak to him."

"And then what?"

Sebastian slapped John on the back. "Not your problem."

* * *

They took John to the basement where Holmes was placed on a chair and left to slump against its arms.

"There's the thread for stitches, rubbing alcohol, some Novocain, some syringes, a sling and some other odds and ends. That's all you need, right?"

John didn't want to ask how they'd gotten all the equipment so quickly or how they knew what he needed. He had given up trying to figure out Jim and his business. "That's fine."

Sebastian tapped the doorframe with his fingertips. "We'll be upstairs. Come up when he's fixed."

Fixed. There was no fixing Holmes, just repairing whatever damage a piece of string and some anesthesia could do. John stepped down the stairs quietly and walked towards Holmes who seemed to be fluctuating in and out of awareness of the situation he was in.

John grabbed the bag and laid out all the equipment they'd procured for him. He knew that the head wound was more important than the arm. He grabbed a cotton pad and the alcohol to clean the wound.

"Eh," John said as he approached Holmes, "you awake?"

Holmes groaned. "Yes."

"I need to clean your wound. You need to sit up."

"I can do it," he said.

"No," John said, "it's at the base of your skull. You wouldn't be able to see it. It'll just take a moment. Just hold still."

Holmes tried to reach out and push John away but he already he the swab ready and one press of the alcohol against the open wound and Holmes was immobilized. He shouted in pain and gripped the arms of his chair.

"Sorry," John said.

Holmes didn't say a word as John repeated the process until he was satisfied with the cleanliness. Now came the hard part. He went to the table to grab the Novocain and a syringe and Holmes tried to get up, albeit slowly and groggily.

"What are you doing?" John asked.

"No," Holmes said. "You are not…"

John looked at the syringe and then back at Holmes. "It's just Novocain. I have to close your wound. It'll just numb the area. There's nothing to be worried about."

Holmes shook his head. "Absolutely not. I will not be compromised."

"Compromised? It is just anesthesia. I swear that it's nothing more than that."

"Do it without it."

John raised an eyebrow in disbelief. He'd had difficult patients before but this seemed unreasonable. "Absolutely not. You need at least a dozen stitches. That is a sensitive area."

"I don't care. Do it."

"No," John said. "I won't. No stop this and sit still."

Holmes had gotten a few steps away from his chair before his wobbly legs gave out and he was on his knees. But still he continued to crawl towards the staircase.

"Jesus," John said as he strode over to Holmes and grabbed his good arm. "There's nowhere for you to go. Just let me do this."

Holmes stopped moving and bowed his head. "Okay," he said.

"Thank you," John said, exasperated.

Holmes forced himself onto his face and made the journey back to his seat. "Who are you?" he asked.

With the Novocain in the syringe, John made his way back to his patient. "Excuse me?" he asked.

"Really. Who are you?"

"Not really your business now, is it?" He found a vein in the back of Holmes' neck and gently let the needle pierce through.

"It doesn't matter now," Holmes said. "I can't do much about it."

John shook his head. "I don't think I'm supposed to talk to you. Now just sit tight and tell me when your neck feels numb. Should be a few minutes."

"You don't want to work for them," Holmes said.

John kept working with his back turned away.

"You don't believe in this. I imagine they courted you with low-level jobs to feed on your ego. They gave you money, didn't they? And easy work."

He didn't answer back.

"But they made you kill. You're probably a good shot and those are hard to come by."

"Please, be quiet," John said.

"Why did you do it?" Holmes asked.

"Do what?"

"Help them. After all your service, all the good you've done, why would you help them?"

He didn't have an answer.

 


	16. Chapter 16

"You want out of this, don't you?"

John felt his upper-hand fall with each syllable out of Holmes' mouth. Whatever power he had over his patient was gone and now he was stuck answering questions he'd rather not have to respond to.

"Please stop moving. This is hard enough as it is."

"A solider," Holmes said, "does not wish to harm others without a purpose. And a doctor on top of that. This isn't in your nature. You spent years of your life dedicated to helping others. These people aren't what you want to surround yourself with."

John was tired of hearing the constant chatter. It was like speaking to a therapist that had done exhaustive research and was regurgitating every detail back. He allowed the tip of the needle to migrate outside of the numb zone and Holmes yelped in pain.

Upper hand regained.

"What is it that you do, Mr. Holmes?" John asked.

"Excuse me?" he said.

"I don't understand. You don't work for the police but you do work with them."

"Yes."

"Why don't you work with them? Why don't they want you?"

Holmes scoffed. "Want me? I don't understand."

"Why don't they hire you on as a detective?"

"I don't need them," he said. "They need me."

John finished his last stitch. "I highly doubt that."

He could see Holmes' shoulders tense up. "I have solved cases for them that have gone cold. Dozens of them."

"Is it because they don't want to work with you? Not really," John said. He felt bad for cutting deep but he wasn't about to let Holmes take advantage of him again. He grabbed at whatever he could.

"I don't need them to like me to do my work. My work is all I need."

John snipped the thread. "Sounds lonely."

"I don't need companionship."

John walked back to the bag to put away his supplies and pull out the sling. Holmes hadn't once complained about his arm was which clearly broken in at least two places. It should have been excruciating.

"Everyone needs friends."

Holmes shook his head. "No they don't."

John bent down and examined the arm. "This is going to hurt."

"What is?"

John didn't answer before he lifted Holmes' arm to examine how to set it in the sling. Immediately Holmes howled in pain.

"Just a few seconds more," John said as he slipped Holmes' hand through the sling and wrapped the strap around his shoulder. "Okay that's it."

Holmes' face was pink with pain but he held his expression tight. "Thank you," he grunted out.

John stepped back and admired his work. It wasn't fancy but it did the trick. It brought him back to the days on the battlefield where a gunshot wound would need to be taken of with a sewing needle and a bottle of water.

"What do they want with you?" John asked.

Holmes didn't answer.

"Well? I mean they've gone far out of their way to get to you and what for? I don't understand."

Holmes tapped his fingers against the arm of the chair.

"Well?" John said louder.

Holmes mumbled something under his breath that John couldn't hear.

"What?"

"I said," Holmes bellowed, "I don't know."

"Seriously?"

Holmes looked up with a weary expression. "I don't…know."

"They said that Jim was obsessed with your work, I guess for a long time. Do you know him…Jim I mean?"

"Jim what? It's a common name."

"Moriarty."

Holmes' eyes perked up. "Did you say Moriarty?"

"Yes," John said. "Do you know him?"

"A bit. I've heard the name before. He's the one whose been planning the cases. The one who has been calling me?"

John gulped back the feeling that he'd said too much. "I don't know," he said. "They haven't told me much."

Holmes sat back in his chair. "When did they hire you?"

"I'm not tell you that," John said.

"Why not? You don't want to be here. Tell me."

"No," John said.

"Now," Holmes said. "Tell me."

John backed away and debated running upstairs for backup but yet he still stood in front of the man he was supposed to hate. "Six weeks."

"Six weeks…and how long since you've been back from combat?"

John turned his back.

"How long?"

"Three months," John said.

"I see," Holmes said.

There were steps coming down the stairs.

"Shut up," John whispered.

Holmes sat up in his seat with the same stern expression he'd had since they'd met.

The first person down the stairs was Sebastian, followed by one of the many burly guards and, in the back, walked Jim. John held his breath and prayed that they hadn't heard any of his conversation with Holmes.

"How is our patient doing?" Sebastian asked.

Holmes nodded his head. "Absolutely fine. Never better."

"That's good to hear. It's always good to have a doctor around, isn't it?" Sebastian flung his head back and made lingering eye contact towards John.

Jim walked around the other three and made his way towards Holmes. "Sherlock Holmes. It's been a long time, hasn't it?"

Holmes' eyes lingered on the approaching figure. "I don't know what you mean."

Jim smiled. "We were just boys. Poor little Carl Powers. He was so young."

"What are you getting at?"

"So easy to poison someone when no one suspects you. He always did annoy me, that Carl. Always bullying our classmates. Mm, yes, he did have to die. It was only right."

Holmes looked on in awe. "They never caught you."

"No," Jim said, "they did not."

Jim moved in closer and lifted his hand to Holmes' cheek. "We have big plans for you, Sherlock. Big plans."

 


	17. Chapter 17

John sat back as they strapped Holmes to the chair. He couldn't stop them as they ripped off the sling and threw it on the ground. He didn't do anything as they forced the broken arm down and his patient screamed in agony. The guards weren't even in front of him. He had no excuse. He was a coward.

"You, my friend, have been a lot of trouble," Jim said.

"I have no idea what you are talking about."

Jim crossed his arms and paced in front of his captive audience. "My hair pin. The one you gave away?"

Holmes shrugged.

"You know what it was worth."

Silence.

"Where is it?"

Silence.

Jim moved in closer. "Tell me where it is."

Silence.

"Tell me!" Jim shouted.

Holmes sat, stone-faced, and mute. John's stomach ached as he anticipated how the next few minutes would play out.

"I will kill. I will."

Holmes shook his head. "You won't."

"Yes," Jim said, "I will."

"No," Holmes said with a smile.

John gripped his fists tight against his side. He'd killed that woman about this hairpin. People had already died for this. He didn't have any doubt that Jim would kill again.

Jim looked back at his men and then grabbed Holmes' broken arm and twisted it. Holmes screamed until Jim let it go.

"You'll have to do more than that," Holmes said.

"I will destroy you," Jim said. "I will ruin everything that you hold dear starting with that mind of yours."

"The pin is gone. You lost."

Jim's face grew red as he grabbed Holmes' arm again and twisted it harder. John winced as he heard another snap in the already compromised bone. Holmes couldn't take much more.

"John," Jim said, "get over here."

John walked slowly towards his boss. His heart beat against the back of his head. "Yes?"

"Did you know that our friend over here is a recovering drug addict?"

He found it hard to believe but he wasn't going to argue. "No. I didn't."

Jim paced in front of Holmes. "Cocaine, is that right? Had a regular dealer—one of my men. Fred was his name. Nice guy. Discreet."

"Why are you telling me this?" John asked.

"What would happen if Mr. Holmes was to relapse…especially in his very fragile condition?"

He gulped back his reaction. "His system is compromised. It would inhibit his recovery."

"Inhibit his recovery," Jim repeated. "Sounds bad."

Holmes shook his head. "You don't scare me."

Jim leaned in close to Holmes. "You will relapse. You will sent out on the street with a blown up flat and a system filled with drugs. You will have killed that old woman. I will make sure you suffer. You will over. _Over_."

Holmes didn't respond.

Jim spun towards John and cocked his head. "I will bring the drugs to you. Give them to him."

John stood, speechless. "I can't."

"Yes you can."

"He's my patient."

Jim snarled. "He's not your patient. He's the enemy. Do it."

* * *

They walked up the stairs and John was left alone with Holmes in the basement. The pair of them stood in silence. Holmes hadn't looked up since Jim spoke to him.

"You have to do it," Holmes said under his breath.

John spun around. "No," he said, "I won't. This isn't what I promised. I won't do it."

"You must or they'll kill you too."

John took a deep breath in a futile attempt to calm his nerves. "You won't survive. You have a brain injury. You shouldn't even be awake right now."

"I'm fine," Holmes said.

John put his hands up in frustration. "You're not fine. You can't be."

Holmes sighed. "I am."

"I can't," John said. "I won't."

There was a thread of silence before Sherlock spoke again. "John. Is that your name. John?"

He didn't care anymore. He had given up on the thin web of secrets. "Yes."

"John," Holmes said, "you must do it. I can handle it after that. I can fix this."

"You can't," John said. "You'll be impaired. They'll kill you."

Holmes looked up. "Then you will help me."

"What?"

"You will help me," Holmes said, "and we both escape."

John wanted to argue. He wanted to shout at this stranger and tell him to shut up but he wanted to believe him. He wanted to believe that there was a way out.

"Yes," he said quietly.

"Yes?" Holmes asked.

John threw his shoulders back like a good soldier. "Yes."

 


End file.
